


Dwell in the House of the Lord

by AnonymousFan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Churches, Digital Art, Fanart, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pickpockets, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shamelessly Fast Burn, also this is short cuz it’s about the size of my attention span, an attempt at very dry humor, and flowers and fluffy things, but I made it s a d, chain gangs, sorry Sirius you said you wanted churches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-15 03:45:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16054874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousFan/pseuds/AnonymousFan
Summary: The world keeps turning after Jean Valjean saves Inspector Javert from the Seine, but working through their convoluted past is evidently a two-man job.The prompt was "Soft valvert with nature and plants and wildflowers and old stone walls and maybe churchyards too," but I'm stupid and made it into angst. But hey, I drew a thing—maybe you'll find that cool enough to offset the butchery of your request.





	1. Somewhat of a Setup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spaceh0und](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceh0und/gifts).



> God this is short I apologize for my addled brain
> 
> Title is from Psalm 23 of the Jesus Book!! It’s a nice psalm even though I am not a Jesus Person, and Les Mis has a LOT of Christian Things(TM) in it, so here we are. Also, the prompt included churches, so extrapolate from there. *shrug*

Since The Incident, Inspector Javert had not left Jean Valjean’s sight; oddly, dragging a fully-grown man out of a polluted and worryingly-torrential body of water did not appear to be an experience that the reformed convict, or the policeman for that matter, cared to repeat. Therefore, after much confusion and more total volume of emotion than Javert had dealt with in his entire life, Valjean had taken to tailing the Inspector on his patrols and so forth through Paris. For Javert, this almost ironic role reversal grew from a painful reminder to a mere annoyance to a pleasant and unfamiliar feeling which he later discovered, following a significant period of denial, was friendship. The two unlikely allies found that they were surprisingly well-matched in an intellectually-stimulating conversation, and despite their apparent lack of a formal education (outside of prison and books), neither was unintelligent. Thus the world had continued turning, and both men had simply enjoyed one another’s company, each without fully realizing that he had fallen deeply, irreversibly, madly in love with his counterpart.

As these things go, the reader may be aware, both Javert and Valjean had become increasingly more emotionally frustrated without explanation, until one unassuming afternoon when sheer luck had driven them to share an uncommonly small carriage on the way to the site of a theft. Needless to say, the prolonged level of physical contact between them was a worthy catalyst for realizations, and the poor driver had been asked to take a few detours to make time for the couple’s mouth-to-mouth confessions (although he would later recall that for some reason he was tipped extraordinarily well that day).

If the gentlemen had been inseparable before this fateful carriage ride, they were practically one unit after it. To appease both of their consciences, Javert had devoted himself to obtaining Valjean a pardon for his original parole breakage, going so far as to track down witnesses from the Orion occasion from over a decade previously. Once this grand feat had been accomplished, Valjean had wasted no time in convincing a very tired Javert to move into his remaining house, which Toussaint welcomed with her timid and motherly air.

Even disregarding the fact that homosexuality was not exactly a welcome practice in 19th century Paris, Javert and Valjean made a somewhat strange pair: they preferred comradeship to carnal pleasures, laughter to lust, and simply holding each other to any other activity. Both were reclusive—Javert by nature and Valjean by habit—so there were few visitors to No. 55 Rue Plumet save for Cosette and Marius, now happily married, and the occasional M. Chabouillet. To the world, the cop and robber presented two older bachelors sharing a space to battle loneliness and pool economic resources. To each other, they were exactly that with the pleasant addition of casual kisses and sharing a bed.

Life was no longer a constant chase for the weary lovers, and the joy they felt together was almost enough to make them forget their miserable pasts.

Almost.


	2. Wanderlust is for the Romantics

The sun was barely over the Parisian rooftops when Javert, contrary to all his unwavering inclinations, agreed to take a detour through some of the less frequently-traveled roads with Valjean.

“Why?” was the Inspector’s inquiry.

“It’s a beautiful day,” was the reply he received.

Unsatisfied, but knowing that he would get no further response from the sentimental old man, Javert had permitted himself to be taken by the arm and led to the suggested location.

He found himself in a meadow peppered with brilliant flowers. The day was unquestionably beautiful, and the sun’s rays cast a golden sheen across the dancing grass. Javert was above such trivialities; nonetheless, he felt a warm flicker in his chest when Valjean selected the prettiest of the scattered wildflowers and offered them to the man with a shy smile. Javert decided that yes, the destination was worth the deviation—scarcely could the two find a place out-of-doors which seemed isolated enough for them to lower their guards for a minute or two. Valjean raised his eyebrows.

“Do you think- ?”

Javert sighed. “I can spare five minutes. No more.”

The beaming expression of gratitude that so often graced his lover’s face was compensation enough for the lost patrol time, no matter how much it grieved him. Javert swore to himself that he would begin his rounds half an hour earlier the next day.

They sat in the undulating field, obscured by the tall grass, and Valjean produced a small book from his front pocket.

Javert let his partner’s voice wash over him as he read aloud. He raised his eyes to the clouds, tracing their movements in his mind.

After a while, Javert turned to find Valjean gazing softly at him, a shy smile on his face. Javert grumbled.

“Have you been staring at me all this time?”

Valjean grew slightly red, but he did not turn away—if anything, his lovestruck air intensified.

“Javert, I could stare at you for hours.”

The Inspector huffed. “That would be a wholly uneconomic use of your time.”

Valjean laughed, and Javert allowed the man an impulsive kiss on his brow. Reflexively, Javert took Valjean’s hand in his. The Inspector could almost feel the man’s heart aflutter through his fingers.

“You are an insufferable romantic,” Javert groused.

Valjean blushed again and lifted Javert’s hand to his lips. “You don’t seem to mind.”

He pressed their knuckles to his mouth, and it was Javert’s turn to flush with red. Valjean’s hand moved to brush the hair from his partner’s eyes as he inched closer. Sliding his arms around his lover, Javert leaned forward to meet him…

Suddenly, something dropped into the Inspector’s lap. Upon closer examination, it was revealed to be his pocket watch, which had somehow gotten loose in their distracted state.

“Damn.”

Valjean, his arms still draped over Javert’s shoulders, frowned minutely.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” groaned Javert. “I was supposed to be on the trail of a pickpocket who’s been frequenting the Quai Saint-Bernard lately—I’m at least twenty minutes behind schedule. He could be anywhere by now.”

Valjean appeared slightly crestfallen, and Javert decided it would be in his best interest to amend his explanation.

“Not that this isn’t enjoyable,” he added, looking apologetic.

Valjean nodded understandingly. “I would hate to get in the way of justice,” he mused.

Javert raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Evidence would suggest otherwise.”

“How dare you cast such frightful aspersions, Inspector,” Valjean jested, feigning offense.

Against his formal nature, Javert let out a snigger which was hastily replaced by a polite cough. Valjean grinned as his counterpart struggled to recover composure.

“Well. I must return to my duties.”

“Even in the company of a ruffian like myself?”

“Unfortunately.”


	3. Losing Track of Time, but Tracking Nonetheless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house, we love and support Romani Javert—if you haven't read the Brick or aren't aware of our favorite problem cop's likely heritage, you might miss the significance of exactly one (1) descriptor in this scene. I promise it's not that important, I have simply been made aware of the need to clarify.

Javert doubled his stride in an effort to make up for lost time. Their excursion had momentarily reduced the tension perpetually building in the Inspector’s shoulders, but the stress had returned in full force the moment the two had stepped foot into the dingy Parisian streets. Valjean hurried to keep up with the long-legged Inspector as he scanned passerby for signs of suspicious activity.

Suddenly, there was a near-imperceptible transformation in Javert’s posture. The hunting dog had marked his target.

Jean Valjean followed the Inspector’s gaze to a small gathering of working-class citizens. Upon first glance, nothing seemed out-of-the-ordinary, but a closer look revealed a man of about twenty years with his hat concealing his mustachioed face and a hand clutching something under his waistcoat. The man caught sight of Javert and began trotting at a moderate pace toward the street corner. Javert had already begun to quicken his stride, Valjean trailing closely behind him.

The man turned hastily onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain—there, he was partially obscured by the fiacres and pedestrians, an intelligent maneuver when one is not fleeing from the famous Inspector Javert. The pursued man, evidently new to criminal behavior, often looked over his shoulder to monitor his hunter. One glimpse, however, made him falter in his course: the Inspector had disappeared from view. The man turned about wildly and was astonished to find he could not see his tracker over the heads of the ambling strollers. A man of Javert’s stature would be hard-pressed to conceal himself in a crowd at all, much less a crowd of this minimal size. The man spent a minute more in his frantic searching, then anxiously continued down the boulevard.

Near the end of the street, where the Blvd Saint-Germain almost reaches the Quai Saint-Bernard, the man bolted to the left, rounding the corner of the building at a gallop.

Without warning, a carriage barreled down the pavement, headed directly towards the runner. He stumbled, gaping in surprise, and lost his grip on the bulge in his coat. The object plummeted, and its contents scattered beneath the wheels of the carriage.  
The man uttered a cry as a hand abruptly grabbed a fistful of his waistcoat and jerked him sharply to the right. He was out of harm’s way—for the moment. Still shaking, the man studied his saviour’s hand which had not yet left his shoulder. The skin was uncommonly dark. Beads of sweat broke out on the man’s brow.

“I suppose a ‘Thank you’ would not quite be appropriate,” came the gruff baritone of Inspector Javert.

The reader may at this point be wondering just how this endeavor was executed. For the benefit of the audience, one fact must be made clear: if one wishes to attain an accurate visual of these incidents, under no circumstances is one to trust the author’s knowledge of Parisian geography. But we digress. The operation was, in fact, quite simple, owing to the fact that the author’s genius (or lack thereof) does not remotely compare with that of the Inspector in question.

Javert, aware of his height and subsequent conspicuousness, had removed his hat (the scandal!) and, utilizing the few seconds he’d had between the man’s backwards glances, ducked behind a fiacre moving in the desired direction. Jogging to keep up with the coach, the Inspector had managed to pass the man within a few feet of him, separated by the vehicle. Then, perceiving the man’s desire to veer left, he had simply fallen in step with a group of people going down the Rue Fossés Saint-Bernard and had cut him off coming around the bend. The offending carriage had not been planned, but the thespian in Javert was pleased at the flair of drama it added to the tableaux.

Valjean, apologizing to anyone within earshot, finally dodged his way through the maze of pedestrians.

“Jav- er, Inspector! Did you—sorry, ma’am—did you find the young—I beg your pardon, sincerely—did you find that poor young man?”

Javert unceremoniously yanked his captive to his feet, his voice comically deadpan. “This ‘poor young man’ just tried to do a very convincing impression of the pavement.”

Valjean’s eyes widened, and he rushed to the man’s aid. “ _Mon Dieu_ , are you alright?”

“Hold this.” Javert all but shoved the wretch into Valjean’s awaiting arms. He knelt in the street and examined the suspect’s crushed belongings. Scattered across the street was an eclectic collection of jewelry and coin which was likely being sorely missed by the upper class of Paris.

Javert fiddled with a dented brooch. “I believe we can conclude with some degree of certainty that this is the pickpocket we’ve been looking for.” With a hint of satisfaction, he noticed that the criminal was growing increasingly more sheepish as he comprehended the position into which he had landed himself.

“And these,” the Inspector continued, gesturing to the stolen accessories, “belong at the station, where they’ll hopefully put an end to all these complaints we’ve been receiving. If they don’t, well.” Javert grimaced. “We won’t concern ourselves with that presently.”

Having gathered the salvageable trinkets into the pickpocket’s upset pouch, Javert stood, scowling at ogling passerby. Turning to Valjean who was still carefully restraining the dismal thief, Javert rummaged through his coat for handcuffs.

Valjean winced. “Are those really necessary, Inspector? He’s just a boy.”

Javert hesitated for a moment, looking perplexed. Finally, he withdrew his gloved hand from his pocket and hailed a fiacre with a curt wave. Desperate to escape the twittering observers, the three clambered into the waiting vehicle.

Once inside, hidden from prying eyes, Valjean laid a hand on Javert’s arm. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Javert paused, his fingers twitching instinctively as if they wanted to reach out and grasp the weathered, calloused palm. Instead, the Inspector stared challengingly at the oblivious pickpocket and called to the driver. “Number 4, Rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève.”

The cab lurched forward, and Valjean’s hand reluctantly slid off. The three occupants settled into an uncomfortable silence as the drone of the street vendors and conversing citizens faded into a dull hum.

All of a sudden, Javert noticed something was amiss. The fiacre had stopped moving.

Javert glowered in irritation and addressed the driver again. “Is there an unavoidable delay, monsieur?” Receiving no response, he flung open the carriage door. The road was swarming with people; it was no wonder the driver had stopped. Javert stood bewildered in the commotion, not comprehending the situation. He heard Valjean emerge behind him, and he moved to ask if the man knew any more about the unfolding chaos. But then he froze.

Approaching the driver, Javert swallowed his uneasiness. “ _Pardon_ , monsieur, what street is this?”

rThe driver snapped out of his reverie. “The Rue du Cardinal Lemoine, Monsieur Inspector. Off of the Pont de La Tournelle.” When he saw Javert’s look of alarm, he faltered, caught off-guard. Speaking slowly, he clarified his description.

“You know, near the prison.”


	4. Unfortunate Recurring Emotions (or, Why Does This Always Happen?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand here's the unhealthily saccharine conclusion we were anticipating, with a side of verbose character analysis

Javert rushed back to the carriage just in time to see the pickpocket climb through the opposite door. He leaped forward as a last resort, but the thief was already vanishing into the oblivion.

“No, no, no!” Javert groaned, running his hands through his hair.

A bolt of dread ran through him: a metallic rattling was penetrating through the ruckus. Javert’s worst suspicions were confirmed as the distinct bark of a prison guard rang in his ears. A chain gang was shuffling down the quay.

The Inspector threw whatever coin he had at the stunned fiacre driver and braced himself for trouble.

Javert saw Valjean’s eyes widen in recognition. Hurriedly, Javert peered around at a quickly-thronging crowd. He took Valjean’s hand protectively. His pulse quickened. He spotted a breach in the gaping masses, and he anxiously yanked his partner through it. Bodies, breathing, cathartic gasps. The group pulsated rhythmically as Javert and the man in tow struggled against the current. The clinking of chains and the excited jeers of spectators rang in tandem through the mess of people. Javert paused his flight to look back at Valjean. He had gone rigid and pale, and Javert noticed with a start that the hand he was clutching was frighteningly unresponsive to his grip. He swallowed and continued fighting his way through the sea of citizens.

As he pushed through them, he was only vaguely conscious of the crowd’s apparent disregard for keeping within their own classes as per usual. Rich or poor, people flock toward suffering to gawk at their fellow man.

After what felt like eons, Javert finally broke through the ranks. Wanting to get as far away from the chatter as possible, he ducked down an alleyway behind the Rue Frédéric, not daring to check in with Valjean until they were safely out of sight. In silence, they continued through the shadows.

It was several tense minutes before Javert finally tugged Jean Valjean out of the alley: they had emerged behind the church of St. Séverin. Giving a cursory glance around him to check for prying eyes, Javert ducked through the conveniently agape doorway into the enclosed building.

When he had caught his breath, he turned toward his lover.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. They must have been coming from La Tournelle. They should… Jean?”

The man stood paralyzed, facing the direction from which they had come. His eyes were gloomy and unfocused.

Javert reached for Valjean’s shoulder, but he flinched violently at the contact. In a flash, his breath shortened, and he curled into himself like a wounded animal.

Javert startled in concern. “Jean. Jean, it’s just me.”

Valjean squeezed his eyes shut and almost seemed to brace himself for an attack. Again, Javert tried to approach, and again Valjean shied away. The Inspector took a step back.

“Valjean,” he said slowly, “Whatever it is you’re seeing, it’s not real.” His voice melted into pleading. “It’s not real, do you hear me?”

Having run out of options, Javert grabbed the man’s collar with more force than he had intended “ _Merde_ , Valjean, answer me!”

Valjean blinked in surprise. In a split second, a torrent of emotion flashed across his face. Then, to Javert’s chagrin, his hands flew to his face as he burst into tears. Javert, at a loss, cautiously wrapped his arms around the weeping man, who immediately collapsed into the embrace. They sank to the floor, Javert fearfully cradling his partner with flustered care. Gradually the sobs subsided into broken gasps. Valjean’s voice came out small and mournful.

“I’m sorry,” he hiccuped into Javert’s chest. “I’m so sorry I cannot be stronger for you.”

Javert reflected on all the times Valjean had held him as he poured out an eternity of anguish and confusion, all those many nights when Javert’s mind had gone back to the Seine and Valjean had been the one to pull him out again. Throughout their history, Valjean had been the consoler in their crazy, dynamic relationship. That day in Madeleine’s office years ago, Javert had lain his mistakes bare for Valjean to see, and even while learning that fate had once again ensnared him, Valjean had reassured the inspector of his worth. Javert now knew that he himself was no longer the stoic wielder of punishment—the encounter at the barricades had killed that man forever—but Valjean was still the unbreakable statue of goodness that had become both a blessing and a curse to him.

After all these years, Valjean had always put forth a determined eye and an unreadable expression that had remained a constant through Madeleine, Fauchelevent, and countless other identities he had fabricated. It was his armor, his shield that had enabled him to become an enigma and escape from Javert’s watch for decades. Even when imprisoned a second time, Valjean was seemingly unfazed by his fall from grace, and he had gone through the agonizing work of the galley slave without qualm, dejected but uncomplaining. This calm lack of recognizable emotion had become part of him, and Javert realized that it was this outward repression that had exacerbated the turmoil within, cultivating the very feelings it was meant to keep hidden. Instead of hating the world that had dealt him wave upon wave of blows, Valjean hated himself. He hated himself, and he had hidden it for so long that even he did not understand what he felt.

Javert’s breath caught in his throat. He pulled the tear-wracked man closer to him and lifted a hand to stroke the snow-white curls.

“Jean—god, Valjean—you’ve been strong for far too many years.”

Javert felt the man in his arms tense, and he pulled back to search his deep brown eyes. They stared back beseechingly, disbelievingly, full of undeserved guilt. Javert furrowed his brow as he tried to brush the sadness from those eyes.

“You don’t have to be strong for me.”

Valjean opened his mouth to protest, but Javert was already leaning forward to gently cover it with his lips. Defeated, Valjean’s eyes fluttered shut as he tilted his chin upward. Javert’s large, rough hands carded through his hair, and they held onto each other as though their lives depended on it. And who knows? Maybe they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha yeah no they totally did.
> 
> THANK YOU IN THE EXTREME TO MY BETAS VOID, SKARMORY, AND ANNA!
> 
> p l e a s e leave comments my dudes I thrive on recognition


	5. An Unsolicited Illustration

To make up for the short fic, please accept my offering of some arts.

This first one was done a couple months ago, and my character designs have changed since then, but I spent a lot of time on this painting (backgrounds are. not fun). Needless to say, this is from chapter 4:

 

This next one was done in about an hour, so it’s not the prettiest, but it’s a better portrayal of how I imagine the boyos to look. This is chapter 2:


End file.
